


Not Yet

by ac_MaryAgnes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Discussion of Death, Gen, Grab your tissues, You Have Been Warned, angsty mccries-a-lot, but not a happy one, no warnings because it's supposed to be a surprise, other characters mentioned only - Freeform, this is not a happy fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 15:47:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7444828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ac_MaryAgnes/pseuds/ac_MaryAgnes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I can hear him, smell him, taste him, feel him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Yet

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a long time ago, and posted it originally to FF.Net. But I'm not on FF.Net anymore, and this was just sort of gathering dust in my 'Stories' file. So here it is.

No, I'm not going to open my eyes. The sun is climbing, my alarm when off half an hour ago, and if I requested, Mrs Hudson would make my tea for me. But I'm not getting out of bed, not greeting the day as I once would have. The sheets and blankets of my shell are warm, cocooning me in the dream state I don't want to leave, that blissful non-reality of _'He's still alive.'_ He has to be, you see – he couldn't possibly be… not alive (don't say that word, _never_ say that word – _don't even think,_ not when it comes to him).

So I suppose it isn't that I'm choosing not to open my eyes, it's that I can't. The illusion will shatter and that… _that_ will be the end of me. It's the brain that tells the lungs to breathe, the limbs to move, the skin to feel. I'll suffocate if my brain misfires, muscles atrophy, nerves die. But oh, the heart.... The heart functions apart of the brain. Did you know that? That's why heartbeats are the measure of life, not brain activity. It could be machines telling your lungs to breathe, your liver and kidneys to process proteins, waste and insulin – no brain waves needed at all. But if your heart's still beating, you're alive. You're a vegetable, but you're still _alive_.

That completely undermines my argument of not opening my eyes or getting out of bed, but it does explain my existence for the past year and a half. You could say that I have been barely living – the heart beats, but that's the bulk of it. No eating, talking, thinking.... I do not remember what I've done, things I've said, or places I've been. I am in the world, but only just. 

Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly ... even Mycroft have all stopped by. I know they've all stopped by at one point or another so see me, but my eyes haven't seen them. All I've seen is the long, lonely road ahead of me, covered in shadows and fog without him. Conductors of light make bright lights shine brighter. What's the point when one of them is gone?

But safe under the blankets – ignoring the sun warming my face, making blood dance red behind my eyelids – I can believe he's _not_ gone. He's in the living room typing on his laptop; he's in the kitchen shuffling experiments as he moves. Can't you hear his footsteps? Can't you hear the keys clicking out his words, and glassware clanking on the table and counters? He's there – I can hear him.

He's just finished taking a shower. I know because I can still smell his soap and shampoo – that spicy-mint scent he likes. He says it helps him get focused in the morning, the menthol shock to his senses. It drifts and wafts through the whole flat, reaching all of the little corners and tight crevices; even Mrs Hudson knows when he's taken a shower. And he's made himself toast. Can't you smell the way the bread burnt just a little too much? The butter that's melted? He's there – I can smell him.

We had Indian takeaway for dinner last night. I can still taste the sweet curry in the back of my throat, under the toothpaste. It had been from that new place down the road, near the Chinese place we like. We had laughed about some case we'd just finished, a presumed murder-suicide that turned out to be a double homicide. It had been so obvious who had done it that we couldn't help but giggle into our Shahi Korma. He had held a bit of his paneer for me to sample. He's there, I tell you – I can taste him.

The air around him vibrates, shimmering ever so slightly around his form. He is a man of action, always needing to move or be moved. Even when he's still, there's a hum. And when he is in action, oh you had better believe that those shocks you're feeling – they all come from him. It's like thunder, powerful thunder, rolling off his skin, over mine and yours and anyone else around. There's an energy to him, in him. So even if I never open my eyes again, never get out of this bed, never greet the sun, I know he's there – I can _feel_ him.

So no, I will not be waking up just yet. If ever. 

Mrs Hudson's on the stairs coming up now. I know it's her because the pain in her hip gives her a very distinctive limp, just like her 'herbal soothers' give her a very distinctive wobble. She really needn't make the trip. I know what she's going to say. It's what they all say, if I feel like hearing them.

_You've got to get up, deary. It's not healthy, this lying about all day._

_We need you still, down at the Yard. You know that, right?_

_You know… this, uh, this isn't what he'd want, I think._

_All lives end. Yours hasn't. Now get up._

But I'm not going to get up. I'm not going to drink tea or help at the Yard. I am going to lie in bed and I am going to wait.

I will wait until I hear the grumbling and complaining, the 'Where's the milk' and the Bit Not Goods. I am going to wait until I feel him tugging at my sleeve, hear his footsteps echoing after mine as we race through London's streets, feel his shoulders shake when pressed against mine while we both try to hold in our giggling at crime scenes.

I am going to wait until I stop thinking about that day in Regents Park, about how stupid I was to think we were safe from Moriarty's posthumous reach. I am going to wait until I stop dreaming about my best friend dying in my arms, his blood spraying from a sniper shot, the red slippery stuff covering my hands and chest as I try to hold his chest together. I'm going to wait until I forget how his heart stopped beating under my palms, until I forget how raw my throat felt from screaming his name. I am going to wait until I stop remembering the triumphant smirk of Sebastian Moran as he was led, handcuffed, to Lestrade's police car. 

But most of all, I am going to wait until John Watson comes back to me, or until I join my doctor. Whichever one comes first. I faked my death once, and John was a constant surprise; he could have easily faked his death as well. There are poisons that slow the pulse, blood packets to create a spray - I've worked it all out a thousand times how my John might've survived. And, if after three years John does not return as I had, well… I do have that fourteen percent solution in the back of my dresser.

On second thought, perhaps I'll be seeing him sooner than anticipated.


End file.
